Consequences
by crazystupidstuff
Summary: Immediately follows TFP - John's warning at the end of The Lying Detective does not fall on deaf ears, but Cupid has not been kind to Molly. This started out as an experimental one shot but has grown into a story... because Molly Hooper is so fantastic she breaks all the rules.
1. Chapter 1

The smell of exhaust beaten to the pavement by unrelenting sheets of cold rain, hung limply beneath the astringent glare of street lamps. 5:00 am flashed on the display. Sherlock cursed at his phone as he brought his forehead to rest against the door. Frigid streamlets dripped from damp curls to run beneath his heavy wool collar, drawing him upright and urging him forward. The decision to knock or let himself in found immediate accedence. Knock. Definitely knock. He spilled his apology quickly, pressing through the opened door, then fell immediately silent.

Molly stumbled backward grasping for the sofa, groaning, "Oh, no. Not you. Please, no. I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't." Apprehensive, red rimmed and glassy eyes stared back at him. Her hair hung oily and unkept, despite several attempts to smooth it away from her face. The stench of whisky was overpowering. She continued stepping backward as she fell against the counter sending the cat's water bowl clattering across the floor at her feet. Sherlock noticed the dried crust of cat food slopped against the wall and floor. Hastening toward Molly, he snatched her phone from the table, scrolled notification of missed calls and unread texts, and asked ridiculously if she'd been drinking.

Abruptly she squeaked and ran to the toilet vomiting. Sherlock chased her, grabbing hold of her hair just before it fell forward as she emptied her stomach. Gently, he removed the tangled elastic and replaced it securely. Scowling, he pulled a clean cloth from the basket and began soaking it with cool water.

Startled by Molly's strangled scream, Sherlock dropped the cloth into the basin, turning as her arm slipped sending her face crashing into the porcelain. Molly threw out her other hand in a delayed attempt to catch herself, but it splashed into the bowl instead. Before her situation worsened, Sherlock caught her from behind, pulling her free of the filth. Stretching forward with one arm to retrieve the cloth, he clutched her weakened frame desperately close to himself, wiping first her contorted face then when it warmed, her dirtied arm while she dry heaved in agony fighting to scream with every breath. Such perverse betrayal spent with implacable violence left her body broken against him. In time the screaming dulled to sobbing and the heaving stopped.

Sherlock buried his face against her, as his arms and back began to ache from the awkward position. He found he couldn't let go. So together they slumped to the cold tile floor and lay there. Recoiling from the intimacy, he tried to sit up to help her out of her soiled clothes. Molly whimpered, "I can't," and passed out.

She woke still wrapped in his arms on the floor. Her mouth felt hideous and her face hurt. Sherlock lifted himself away as Molly shifted out from beneath him, her pain clouded eyes meeting his with uncertainty.

She shrunk defensively from his damaged fingers against her bruised cheek. He looked down, and mumbled, "I'll make coffee."

Molly stood, and with some difficulty, found her balance and turned on the bath. Sherlock watched from the doorway until she safely tugged her stiffened shirt over her head and slipped into the water. Almost immediately she stood, way too fast, and then sunk to her knees. Gripping the tap, she turned on the shower ignoring the curtain. Hiding her eyes against the soft flesh of her forearm, she waited for the pain to dissipate.

Sherlock stood in the kitchen, hands pressed hard to the worktop staring at the floor. Rising to stretch sore muscles, he removed the emptied bottle, noting the label with contempt, and pitched it in the bin. Shaking hands removed the remnants of her tea and wiped the surface clean. He put the coffee on and washed up the dishes along with the cat bowls. Toby watched silently from a chair beneath the table.

Chewing her lip and gripping her towel, Molly said nothing as he crouched low beside fresh food and water speaking to the cat but stepped into her bedroom and quietly closed the door. Safe in quiet solitude, she collapsed onto the softly worn comfort of clean sheets. Dry eyed, her gaze drifted around the room. The front door opened and closed again. She heard the bolt slide into place. With a sigh, she dressed.


	2. Chapter 2

Pensive fingers to her lips, Molly padded toward the soothing comfort of fresh coffee. Toby wound his way around her ankles as she dug through her purse for pain medicine. Swallowing down the pills with hot coffee, the clean bin liner seized her attention and she nearly choked. Instead she gripped her mug in stubborn fortitude, and opened every window shade, flooding the rooms with sunlight.

With a heavy sigh, she abandoned the mug for a glass of water and sank into her favorite chair, but the smell of spilled alcohol did nothing to assuage her nausea. Frowning, she changed awkwardly to the sofa. Toby followed, demanding a face rub. Absently appeasing the cat, Molly scrutinized her surroundings. An insistent buzz from her phone broke the circumspective mood, commanding her attention. As she tapped out her reply, Molly forcefully held her composure against the startling sound of the locked front door opening.

"Good morning, Molly." Sherlock dropped food on the table and carried his bag to the spare room.

"They know you're here. Everyone."

"Of course I'm here. Where else would I be?" He asked, examining the flat.

"Mycroft's men removed them."

"They are not always thorough."

Once satisfied, he picked up the grease stained sack and sat down in her chair. She smirked at his pinched expression as he quickly moved to the sofa next to her.

"Molly, I…"

"You don't have to explain. I ... I really don't want you to explain."

They sat in silence. The chips were cold, but she ate them anyway. "Is this what it's like for you? Feeling so many things so strongly all at once that you just don't feel anything at all?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, and slowly answered, "Sometimes, yes."

"Are you okay? I mean, I know you're not...But I just... you don't seem yourself. Should I be worried? Are you alright?"

"Mycroft told you?"

"Greg."

He nodded thoughtfully.

"Not here, I mean he wasn't in my flat." Molly stuttered. "I was upset and I... I'm sorry," She rose to grab a jacket and her handbag, "I should probably go help Mrs. Hudson with Rosie." She looked toward the spare room, staring at his bag in the doorway, "You can stay of course, my sheets are clean. I mean I did lie down on them earlier but… not for too long. There isn't much in the frig but I suppose that doesn't matter." She rambled as she searched for her keys.

Sherlock stood, "Molly, you smell."

Her face flushed red in humiliation.

"Why don't we get out for a walk instead?" he suggested.

"You don't have to take care of me, Sherlock. I'll just go for a run. I've heard that helps."

"Are you avoiding me?" he asked, matching her volume.

"No! I just thought you might like the time alone to... I just don't know that I can help you."

She reluctantly calmed as his hands captured hers. "It's just a walk, Molly. Please."

Molly's shoulders fell in defeat. He took the jacket and held it open. She stood still for a moment before sliding her arms through and pulling the garment tight around herself.

* * *

Abruptly self-conscious as they stepped to the pavement she asked, "Do I look alright? You can see it; can't you?"

His eyes ran over her sunlit face lingering on the swollen purple shadow that disappeared into her hairline, "No, not really."

Molly pulled her ponytail free so that it fell like a veil, camouflaging the bruise. The cruelty was disquieting as he watched her retreat into safe obscurity.

"You don't trust me." He made no effort to hide the grief.

She slid her arm through his and kept walking.

"Sherlock, how did I hurt my face?"

"You fell."

"Into the toilet." She finished

At her words, he ducked his face to hide his smile, "Yes"

She closed her eyes in embarrassment, "So, this morning was real."

"I didn't want to leave you alone." He stuttered.

Molly willed her feet to keep moving. "How is the renovation?"

"Fine."

As they continued in silence, she looked for any opportunity for distraction.

"Would you like to eat a proper meal?" Sherlock asked looking at a menu posted outside a restaurant door.

Molly stopped. He turned to question.

"I'm sorry. I'm going to go back. I still don't feel well."

"Yes, umm, okay," He resigned. "Let me get you a cab."

* * *

Molly was asleep in the spare room when he returned. Sherlock watched her for a moment, picked up his bag and went to her bedroom.

After changing, he collapsed on the bed to stare at the ceiling. He closed his eyes. The sheets were clean, too clean. She didn't sleep here anymore. He rolled to his side and buried his face in the smell of a memory.

He woke to a fresh cup of tea and padded out to the kitchen in his pajamas to find a note indicating a plate of food in the microwave and a pot of coffee on the warmer. The chair was gone. The consulting detective spent most of the morning staring at the empty floor but couldn't quite work it out.

Late that night Molly returned smelling like the morgue. She discarded her purse and keys on the table and went immediately for the shower. Comfy and clean, she made tea and by rote walked to the empty spot where her chair had been. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa still in his pajamas, thinking. Molly considered going to her room, but he sat up and began rubbing his temples. "Hello Molly."

"Hello." She looked him over and asked, "Should I make you a sandwich?"

"Please, and some tea if you don't mind," he drew a hand over his face. Sherlock turned to make a request but she was standing at the counter top slicing a tomato. His jaw froze. He looked away, as he grappled with the inconvenient reality of John's warning.

"How did she know?" Molly's voice quietly shattered his valiant attempt at normalcy.

"She didn't. She got lucky." He argued over his shoulder before deciding to close the distance and join her in the kitchen.

Molly refused to be intimidated, "I don't think so." She passed him the sandwich.

He contemplated her response while nearly swallowing the sandwich whole before carrying the tea back to the sofa.

She chewed her lip, and finally asked, "Were you convincing?"

Sherlock's brow tightened. "What do you mean?"

"Do they believe you lied to me?"

"Molly," he began with a sigh but hesitated as she approached him and sat down. "No. I don't believe I was."

Her features crinkled in anger but quickly cooled to concern. "That must've been awful for you."

Sherlock shifted his hands around the tea cup to hide the quickly healing injury. His eyes didn't leave the carpet. His voice barely rose above a whisper, "Depends on how you look at it, I suppose."

Molly gently pulled the empty cup from his grasp. "But that's never going to work is it?" the hollow truth in her voice rung final.

Sherlock pulled his feet up onto the cushion and rested his head in her lap, "So far, so good."


	3. Chapter 3

Molly gently drew her fingers through dark curls noticing his hair is shorter now, not quite as soft, "Do you think they've always been here?"

Sliding one arm beneath her knees, Sherlock closed his eyes. The corner of Molly's mouth turned, remembering a time when Sherlock Holmes' hand against the back of her thigh would have sent her pulse racing. She inhaled deeply, relishing the victory of a steady rhythm but against better judgment, let her resting hand run from his neck over his back and shoulders. The small smile faded, the tension she felt beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt carried every broken shard precariously lodged like shrapnel in crumbling defenses. Instinctively, her fingertips dipped to his scalp softly coercing relief. She slid her palm down his arm protectively as if somehow she could shield his heart from discovery.

"You never told anyone," he said.

Molly's gaze continued to roam over furniture and windows. She felt no need to answer. It wasn't a question, just an emphatic statement of simple fact. Sherlock sat up. Molly turned so that their eyes met. Her naked vulnerability never failed to arrest him.

He jumped to his feet and began checking the room again, frequently turning back to the kitchen to confirm the angle. Molly looked away, waiting for him to catch up. Suddenly Sherlock stopped, spun around to stare at the front door, and then followed line of sight back to the bedrooms. Dismissing the shame, Molly frowned in concern. She felt sick.

"The locks were changed." Sherlock sprinted for the kitchen and dove beneath the sink. Molly's head fell into her palm as he tore through cleaner bottles and bin liners until he emerged holding a small tool kit.

The hardware flew to pieces but gave up nothing. Frustrated, he threw down the tools and sat back against the door.

Molly dropped her hand from where she'd been chewing her thumb and turned back to the windows.

Sherlock glanced in her direction and huffed, "No."

"Why you?" he growled as he stood and paced the room. "Apart from ease of access, it's not as if you were the only possible choice."

"I have an early shift. I should get to sleep." With a shake of her head, Molly stood and walked toward the spare room, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

He watched her disappear behind the door frame. Quickly, he moved to the kitchen, but the angle was still not right. He knew she was pulling off layers of fabric and sliding under the blankets on the left side. Jumping from a chair to the table, his head banged against the ceiling while attempting to peer from above the cheap chandelier, but he still could not see Molly, just a small portion of the bed. Brow furrowed with annoyance, he hopped to the floor.

Sherlock pulled on his coat and turned to leave, but quickly shrug it off again to reassemble the door. After testing the bolt on one knee, he turned to retrieve his coat but stopped. Dim yet clearly visible in the moonlit glass, he saw the reflection of the empty tea cup on the sideboard where he'd left it. Steadying himself against the shock, Sherlock blinked away the image of tousled bedding and fumbled for the discarded screwdriver. Molly's eyes opened at the sound of the chairs being flung away from the table. Scouring every inch of the ornamentation, Sherlock found it. Heart pounding, he wrested it from the wood and wrapped it a napkin before using electrical tape to seal the small package.

The flat was empty when Molly awoke. She returned the mess of supplies to their place beneath the sink and with a contented sigh, she replaced the chairs while coffee brewed. Sipping from the steaming cup, she paused in the doorway for several moments before pulling the door closed and deciding against tidying the bedroom. After laying out clothes from the closet in the spare room, she disappeared into the shower. Turning her face to the soothing spray of water, Molly smiled. On her way out, she briefly considered leaving a plate of food in the frig on the off-chance Sherlock returned, but when her phone buzzed with an invitation to lunch from Greg, she abandoned the idea. Grabbing her handbag and tapping out her reply, Molly left for Bart's.


	4. Chapter 4

Note:

I'm sure you've noticed the decrease in quality as the time between updates has also decreased.

I've chosen to publish 2nd drafts so that the story can be enjoyed on a reasonable time frame.

That being said, I do apologize for not presenting my very best work.

Also, I want to thank everyone for their comments and reviews.

I read everything in a positive light, so please never hold back your criticism.

I enjoy hearing what you like, as well as what you don't.

It helps me grow as a writer.

Genuine perspectives are beautiful, and I promise to never cause anyone to regret speaking up.

* * *

"Expecting someone else?"

Molly looked down at the stack of folders on the table in front of her, "Yes."

Sherlock fumbled with the envelope in his coat pocket.

"Did you need something? It's pretty slow today," She asked wrestling open a drawer to begin filing the reports.

Sherlock watched as she brushed a lock of stray hair back behind her ear with her fingertips.

"I think you're right," he spoke quietly.

"Oh," the broken sound belied her determined posture. She pushed the drawer shut, "It's okay. Nothing's changed really..." With a forced smile she raised her palm to his cheek, "Thank you. It was sweet of you to try."

"Molly, I meant..," he began to pull the envelope from his pocket.

"It really is fine, Sherlock. We can still be friends. I will always be your friend. It's best this way... in the end," her voice became more insistent as she abandoned the files and took off her lab coat.

"Why is it best?"

"I'm just not your type," she managed with a chuckle.

"Not my type?" Sherlock dropped the envelope back into his pocket.

Molly sighed, "Yes, You don't find me attractive. I said it's okay." She hung her lab coat on the peg and turned to face him.

"Why would I have sex with someone I don't find attractive?"

"Sherlock!" watching the door, Molly quickly contained her reaction.

Eyes narrowed in a piercing stare, Sherlock took a step toward her and shifted discontentedly.

"That doesn't count," Molly hissed as she stomped toward him.

"Of course it counts," Sherlock returned through his teeth.

"It was a long time ago and you were high," she accused. "And I'd been drinking," she concluded with a derisive shake of her head before she dropped it in shame and turned her back to the room. In an effort to compose herself, Molly looked around for her handbag, silently cursing her constant inability to fend off the emotional storm. Refusing defeat, she strode confidently to the shelf where she'd left it.

"No," Sherlock confessed, "I wasn't."

Molly stopped and turned to him incredulously, "What?"

"I wasn't high," he repeated with emphasis. "You'd had just enough to drink to believe I was. Come now, Molly. You always know the truth. How could you have possibly missed that?"

"You took advantage of me?"

"Don't be ridiculous! I just knew otherwise you would never..."

"I trusted you!"

"And you know I'm telling the truth. So see? You were wrong. You are attractive," Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth.

"No, no!" Molly ground out through clenched jaw as she struggled to open her fist enough to point at the door. "Get out," she commanded, proud that her voice didn't fail her, but held an even tone.

"Why? I never shagged Molly Hooper."

"Get. Out."

"You know it's the truth," Sherlock argued as Molly marched toward him and physically spun him around to face the exit.

"I never shagged Molly Hooper," Sherlock called louder as she shoved him toward the door just as Greg entered.

"Oh, sorry."

Molly immediately stepped from behind Sherlock, leaving him to stumble for his balance. "It's fine, Greg. Ready then?" She casually grabbed her handbag and walked out of the lab. Glancing from Molly to Sherlock's face, Greg quickly followed.

"I NEVER SHAGGED MOLLY HOOPER!" Sherlock bellowed down the hallway.

* * *

"Wanna tell me what that was all about?" Greg smirked discarding his menu.

"No," Molly laughed, "Not really."

"You sure? Because I can always get it from John," Greg quipped.

* * *

"Well, you're in a mood. What's happened?" John asked noticing a small envelope impaled on the mantel.


End file.
